


love has made ruins of my heart

by monopolizers



Category: Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (2011)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-20
Updated: 2012-03-20
Packaged: 2017-11-02 06:07:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/365788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monopolizers/pseuds/monopolizers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Since Love has made ruins of my heart<br/>The sun must come and illumine them.</i> </p>
<p>A story of ending and beginning, told in three parts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	love has made ruins of my heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [factual](https://archiveofourown.org/users/factual/gifts).



> aaaaah happy birthday to sono!!! i really really hope you enjoy this..... even though.....it's late...... /tears

_**9** _

_I broke your heart.  
Now barefoot I tread  
on shards._

 

He has always prided himself on being eminently practical. 

Ridiculous, some might call it – or even foolish – a man in Peter's position, with a vice like the one he has – this so-called love that dare not speak its name – and he worries about _practicality_? But it calms him to have such a routine; to think that he’s keeping himself safe, somehow. Even if he knows this – that there is no such thing as true safety – and even if he knows this: that Richard is a liability.

And it makes sense, it _does_ , and it _works_ , more than anything – it works so well for them, even with the secrecy, even with the lying – even when Peter comes home late, smelling like cigarette smoke – even when he doesn’t come home at all –

– And then it stops being about the power; starts being a matter of national security, and of spies, and of traitors. Peter understands – of course he does – that it is more _practical_ to tie up his loose ends.

More practical, he tells himself, walking home from Smiley’s flat. He knows what he must do. Practical. The word tastes like ashes in his mouth, like the death of any happiness he could possibly have had.

It’s what he tells Richard, too, as he forces the words out, each one dropping like a lead weight in the grey silence between them. Richard doesn’t believe him at first – Peter feels like death, he’s aware the color of his face must be ghastly, he looks about as believable as Tarr did, that first day – but he keeps saying, over and over again, “I need you to leave. I don’t want you here anymore,” and at some point he can see the fight drain out of the set of Richard’s shoulders, can see hurt and despair seeping in slowly through the lines of his frame – a body that he knows so well, a body he could trace in his sleep, that he reaches for every night. He almost gives it up but remembers Smiley, and the desperate look on Tarr’s face as he said, _Irina, all I want is Irina,_ and adds, “You’d better pack up your things. This was my flat first, and I’d prefer that you leave as soon as possible.”

Richard says as he leaves – “If there’s someone else you can tell me. I’m a grownup,” and tosses the keys onto the table like a final act of defiance, but also almost like a supplication (you can tell me, you know, and we can work this through together – we’re both grownups – I still want this to work – I love you).

Practicality sounds like the stupidest thing a man could hope for when faced with an empty flat and a sink full of dishes he’ll have to wash by himself for the rest of his life.

//

 

_**17** _

_Why is the word yes so brief?  
It should be  
the longest,  
the hardest,  
so that you could not decide in an instant to say it,  
so that upon reflection you could stop  
in the middle of saying it._

 

They had met in a smoky bar somewhere in the horrible London underground, at some time in the late 60’s; Richard remembers it clearly still, that first time, and most of all he remembers this – a pair of blue eyes, and the kind of smile that could entice as well as it could kill. It seems to describe Peter – Guillam, as he had introduced himself then – as well as anything could. But Peter’s always been a hard man to pin down, and Richard, so far back, hadn’t even tried; had thought, in fact, that after one night, two nights, that Peter would grow tired of him. Was surprised when one night turned into two, and then into three and then became a week, a month, a year and then two – _I am a lucky man,_ he thought, and didn’t spare any more on the subject. 

That first night he had been younger, in his mid-thirties, and Peter had seemed so completely out of place in the bar, surrounded by men who ordinarily would have been quite fit, not at all bad-looking. But it was Peter who had shown them all up; it was still the way Richard thought of him, after all these years – that first sighting, in the corner of the room – Peter’s hair had gleamed orange-golden in the dim light and the line of this throat as he tossed his drink back, beckoned for another, had been striking. He wasn’t necessarily attractive, but he was charismatic, appealing; he made everyone want to sit up and take notice of him. Peter, though, had never been self-aware. He was relaxed in the unconscious way of charismatic men, and had lounged about quite languorously until his eyes had lighted on Richard, and he had, inexplicably, smiled.

Richard smiled back too, possessed of some unknown force. He hadn’t come out looking for any – any _thing,_ as his friends might have suggested. He hadn’t meant to come out at all, but he had been so tired – it would be a change, someone had said with a slight smile – he didn’t remember who now – but it didn’t matter, either, because Peter had risen up at that point and was walking towards him, extending a hand.

“Guillam. Peter Guillam,” he had said, voice assured and confident and handshake firm. It was so completely incongruous and so proper compared with what was going on around them, what the British government still considered “deviancies,” what had caused Turing to kill himself just thirty years earlier – that Richard had almost laughed, and maybe it had shown on his face – the action, not the thought – because Peter’s face took on an odd light, almost shining.

Up close he was almost devastatingly attractive – strong lines in his jaw, deep dimples when he smiled, all lean lines in his suit with a tie that almost, but not quite, matched the bright, inquisitive blue of his eyes.

“Richard Eckley,” he’d replied, throat a little dry from the smoke. 

“So do you come around here,” a jerk of the head to indicate the bar, now almost stifling in its heat, “a lot?” Peter asked it almost nonchalantly; very casual, like he didn’t want to seem too eager – again, something Richard had figured out about him later. At the time it had just seemed unbearably out of his reach. He almost choked. It was the kind of come-on men used all the time – but he wasn’t the type of bloke that’d appeal to _this_ man, this man in the prime of his youth, confident and drunk on life.

“First time,” he’d replied, and that startlingly fresh grin had returned, dimples out in full force.

“Same for me!” The grin made him look years and years younger, almost like a schoolboy – Richard asked his age. “Twenty-five, but in my line of work that’s really more like fifty. High turnover rate, you see.” Richard didn’t see, but didn’t ask, either – that sort of thing wasn’t really his business and he wasn’t really interested. 

“So,” Peter had said, after a silence that had gone on just enough to become awkward, “do you want to – ” He had jerked a thumb towards the door and Richard had understood in that moment one of the traits that grew to be very dear to him – Peter’s innate discomfort with words, his physicality, and his use of gestures and movements and expressions to often convey what he could not with words. (Later, he never said, I love you. But he brought flowers home, and he washed the dishes, and he made breakfast. It was enough).

Their interaction had been so new, then, so – Richard had said, no, no, I came just for a friend, and watched Peter’s face fall, and felt a strange tinge of regret. He brushed it off as nothing more than a lost opportunity – went home, graded papers, and before bed came, silently, to the image of the attractive young stranger who had tried to hit on him, with those blue, blue eyes and the kind of clean lines in a suit that would have made a woman cry.

And then he’d met Peter in a grocery store, completely by accident, and when he’d seen that smile in the daytime he didn’t have the heart or the intelligence to say no – and he had said yes – and then it had all changed, had it not.

But now he’s sitting in his mate’s flat looking for a place to stay, and Peter isn’t the person he’d thought, and everything’s gone to hell. Because he’d gone to the bar that night, and said yes even though he shouldn’t have at the grocery store. And kept on saying yes, and yes, and yes, because he was in love, and it had never been like _this_ before.

And never will be again, he thinks ruefully – gets up out of bed and gathers his clothes. The days go on, even after your heart’s been broken. The sun keeps rising even after you think you’ve lost everything, and he’s never been a diehard romantic. There’s no place to be such a thing, is there. Peter was so fond of practicality, though it hid the romantic underneath – Richard is something of the opposite. He likes flowers, and kindness – but things happen, and he keeps going. A man in his position _must_ keep going.

He dresses slowly for school and thinks about places that he can look at later, elderly landlords who won’t be suspicious of a single man at his age without a flat of his own. In the back of his mind there is, and probably will always be, a thought for Peter, and what Peter’s doing – but he can deal with that. It’s nothing unusual any longer.

//

_**18** _

_—Sing me The Song of Songs.  
—Don't know the words.  
—Then sing the notes.  
—Don't know the notes.  
—Then simply hum.  
—Forgot the tune.  
—Then press my ear  
to your ear  
and sing what you hear._

 

“You’re here,” Richard says, almost stupidly. He’s standing at the doorframe, looking at Peter, who is soaked through; the rain outside is falling still, harder and harder. 

Peter nods, shivers. “I – I am here. To talk to you. If – if you’ll let me.” He makes an aborted, jerky movement towards Richard’s hand. It’s strangely, horribly familiar – Peter, again, with his reluctance to get close to others – but so craving of love, so hungry for affection. There had been a time, once, when Richard had run his fingers, lightly, through Peter’s hair – it had been late afternoon, the light weakly struggling through the blinds that Peter insisted on closing – and even as he flinched away, face showing irritation, his entire body had arched towards Richard’s hand, and Richard had known.

He’s not a stupid man. He knows what secrets look like. He knows, too, the strain on Peter’s face in the morning – the sharp, angry line of his back at night – the muscles in his face, constantly striving for a smile even when all he wants to do is snarl and snarl like a wounded animal, not let the world near him – Richard’s not _stupid._ Peter can keep his secrets. Richard just wants _him,_ prickliness and all. He knows all the worst parts of this stupid, stupid person – this petty man, this man who still looks at others when they’re walking together in the street – this man who never puts his clothes away and takes more time getting ready in the morning than any woman – this man who sulks when Richard doesn’t laugh at his jokes – and isn’t that love? To know the worst part of every person and want them all the harder for it? Just because he doesn’t understand it all – is this any reason to push him away? 

He hasn’t said anything for a while, and Peter’s face has been steadily dropping. “I don’t –” he says, then cuts himself off sharply. “I’m sorry,” he says instead. “I shouldn’t have – I’m _sorry,_ I’m so fucking sorry, Richard, I –” 

Richard shakes his head, and Peter flinches again. “Come inside,” Richard says instead, and Peter follows him, still shivering. 

They sit on the couch, a little distance from each other, after Peter dries himself off and Richard makes a cup of tea. It’s hot and strong, the way both of them like it – one of the few ways they have ever been similar. 

“Why are you –” Richard begins, only to be cut off by Peter blurting out, desperately, 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so, so fucking sorry. And I can’t – I can’t tell you why it happened – but there wasn’t anyone else – and there hasn’t been for so long – and I wanted to know – I wanted to know if we could go back. To the way things were.” His face is both alight with hope and steeled for disappointment. 

Richard finds, suddenly, that he cannot breathe. His chest is tight with – what? How many times has he thought or dreamed of this exact scenario? That Peter would come back, want to be together again – that Peter would realize his mistakes, would apologize – 

But he’s forty-five years old, and still wishing on stars like a girl. Like things won’t change, like they won’t be upheaved again – like Peter can’t lie – like he won’t leave once more, with Richard behind him, picking up the pieces. 

He takes in a deep breath, curls his fingers around the comforting warmth of the tea mug. “Peter,” he begins, and the wild, unrestrained hope that passes over Peter’s face for just a moment is almost enough to make him lose his breath again. But he starts again. “Peter,” he says. “I don’t think – I don’t think we can go back to the way things were. I don’t think I want that kind of life for myself any longer.” He tries to infuse his tone with all the things he could never say out loud – I’m tired. I’m forty-five years old, and I’ve spent so much of my life chasing after a man a decade younger than me, never knowing if he really loved me or if I was just convenient to him – and then when I learned that he did, he barely ever said it. And then he left me, and I came here, to this tiny, shitty little apartment, and he came back and said he was sorry and that he wanted things to be the same again. And I don’t know if I want them to be the same. I want something more than that. 

But Peter’s entire body is slumped, strings cut like a puppet. As Richard watches, he pulls himself together with a visible effort, manages to paste on that fake smile that he wears so well. “Very well,” he says. The smile wavers. “Thank you for – being honest with me. I suppose I’ll just…” His voice trails off as he stands up to leave. Richard sighs.

“Sit down,” he says. It comes out sounding more tired than he’d have liked, but that’s all right. 

Peter sits back down again. He doesn’t look confused, but his feet are tapping again, and he’s pressing his fingertips together hard, a habit he has whenever he’s trying to figure something out. But he says nothing; just sits warily on the couch, poised almost as if he’s going to take flight again. As if he’s waiting for Richard to tell him to leave.

“When I said I didn’t want to go back…” Richard begins, but doesn’t know quite how to say it. He doesn’t want what they had before – the secrecy, the lies. That terrible silence whenever Peter didn’t come home for days on end. The awful aching loneliness of sleeping in a bed alone. But – but – 

But – he still wants Peter, who is – wonderful. Who smiles whenever Richard cooks, who wants to touch and touch and touch but is afraid to be touched – who kisses firmly, gently – whose walk is firm and confident, the same way it was all those years ago when they first met. 

Richard takes a deep breath.

“Hi,” he begins. He holds his hand out to Peter, who is looking at him with a mixture of fear and disbelief – like he doesn’t know quite what’s going on – but the sun is rising on his face, and it’s so perfect to behold – 

“My name is Richard Eckley,” he says, hand still out. “What’s yours?”

And Peter smiles – not the fake half smile he gives everyone else, but the one he saves for Richard in their private moments – the kind of smile that breaks out across his face unexpectedly and is quite breathtaking in that it is not at all beautiful, except if you’re looking at it with the right eyes. And Richard is, and so it seems like the kind of new beginning he’s been looking for since he met Peter, ten years ago – said no, and then yes, and then yes and yes and yes. 

“My name is Peter,” Peter says, still smiling. “Peter Guillam.”

When their hands meet, it’s familiar – but also like the birth of something new – and Richard remembers, from long ago, the smile of Peter Guillam then – and puts it out of his mind, and draws Peter closer, and kisses that broad smiling mouth.

**Author's Note:**

> the poem is ["if there is something to desire"](http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/21519) by vera pavlova, who is kind of fantastic, by the way. and the title & summary come from [this](http://www.poetry-chaikhana.com/R/RumiMevlanaJ/SunMustCome.htm) poem by rumi.
> 
> uhhh please concrit, please... please....


End file.
